Everything
by AirborneGirl
Summary: The situation is getting desperate. You need to find somewhere you can relax, or someone you can talk to who will just listen, without judgment. Deeks's POV as he tries to cope without Kensi. Set during season 5, rating for mild swearing.


**AN:** Hi everyone. Thanks to the sweet reviews my first NCIS: LA story recieved, I now dare to publish a new one. Hope you like it.

Disclaimer: I got Deeks and Kensi undercover, staying with me. As long as they don't break it, nobody will be the wiser, right? In the meantime, let's all agree I don't own squat, okay?

**Spoilers**: Halfway through season 5. Kensi's still in Afghanistan.

**Everything**

_Part I_

_Deeks_

A whole month she was gone now. A whole, lousy, long, painful period during which you were never granted even one short moment of contact. All you have is her knife (not just a knife, no matter what anybody says) and some pictures. And her scent all over your house, tangled in the sheets you know you're going to have to wash one of these days if you don't want to develop scurvy.

All in all, it's enough to make your skin crawl, to have all the nightmares and insecurities you were only barely getting any control of, resurface with a vengeance.

She was your partner after all.

No, scratch that. You know, everyone knows she's more than that. A lot more. Some you have named, a lot more you have not. And perhaps you will never get the chance to name them too, at least not in her face.

How foolish you have been, both of you. One would have thought that, in your line of work, the realization that there was no such thing as eternal life or all the time in the world or even a simple 'later' would be engrained into your very DNA and that therefore, you made sure no important things remained unspoken.

As it was, you always pushed the ultimate moment where you were forced to put a more real and permanent label on your thing forward every time. It would happen. Some day. Not now. There was always a reason why it couldn't be now. Reasons that were perfectly plausible then, but held no meaning looking back with the very real fear you might have left it too late; the chance to have what was lingering right in front of you gone forever.

Because of your own stupidity.

The fear weighs you down, slows your heartbeat to an almost halt, the valves thudding in a perpetual repeat that whispers 'too late, too late' until you want to rip it out and stomp on it until it stops. Just stops its useless beating, keeping you alive for no reason other than to remind you of what you could have had.

It doesn't make you a pleasant man to work with. On some level, you understand and recognize that Sam and Callen, Eric and Nell all miss her too and that, each in their own way, they try to support you by taking you out for beers and letting you choose where to have meals, but they don't get that none of that matters even a bit. Taco's or burgers or pizza are not the same if not eaten while tangled on the couch with your partner, watching Top Model and trying to ignore how natural it feels to have her legs propped up in your lap or her head resting on your shoulder.

They're good people and you're glad that your friendship with them has taken on a whole new depth after you saved Michelle's life by keeping the secret of her true identity under the most extreme torture, which has turned Sam from a highly doubtful man into a staunch and reliable Deeks supporter and which brought Callen round for good not long after.

But they could never grasp the numbness that has taken a hold of you, the cold that has started to creep into your bloodstream and chills you to the core. Only having her back, safe and sound, in your arms, will unthaw you. Nothing else will do.

You know, you tried. Surfing, getting drunk, going surfing while being drunk (not a good idea), going surfing while hung over from being drunk (also not a good idea), nothing helped. And neither did the phone numbers slid into your pocket as you sat lonely at a bar, nursing a beer, not looking anyone in the eye and wanting to be anywhere but there.

Nate tried too. Of course he did. He had his orders, he was supposed to keep agents and officers alike in the right mindset. But, unlike after your torture, you didn't give him a way in. Not even when you were supposed to be off guard and relaxed during an NBA game, for which he magically got the two of you some very hard to get by tickets. You liked the distraction of the game well enough, but weren't nearly distracted enough to take the bait.

This is a one solution problem and the solution is unavailable. So what's there to talk about?

Even Hetty tried. With cups of tea and later, when that didn't provoke any reaction, with the smoothest of whisky's. But if the drink was nice and smooth and the numbness it provided most welcome, her prodding wasn't and she never got you drunk enough to bare your soul.

Maybe, a long time ago, you would have let her in. Way back in the day, when Hetty was your hero, this pocket-sized human missile, this Yoda reincarnate. But that was before she sanctioned the disappearance of your partner, just when you needed her the most. Just when you finally…

The situation is getting desperate. You need to find somewhere you can relax, or someone you can talk to who will just listen, without judgment. Without knowing you or needing you or making demands on you in any way. Without a progress report to be filed which can come back to bite you in the ass at any given moment in the future when your sanity is called into question.

Someone with all the time in the world and no hidden agenda.

Someone who loves Kensi too.

Or loved…

Wait. There might be somewhere…

You want to put your idea in motion right now, lest you freak out and back away. Even though it's a Saturday, you know you can count on her, so you find and select her number, hands shaking slightly, but your mind clearer than it's been in a very long time.

"Nell? It's Deeks. Sorry to disturb you on a Saturday, but can you do me a favor?"

Hearing the urgency in your voice, she agrees without hesitation or without questioning your unusual request. She merely calls you back five minutes later with the answers.

Another five minutes later, you're in your car, on your way.

It's peaceful and quiet at the Los Angeles National Cemetery. Searching the rows and rows of identical crosses and the occasional Star of David, your eyes scanning the many names of those who have fallen in the line of duty, you say a silent thank you to all. You might be in the same line of business and surely Kensi is, these brave men and women have done and given so much more than you. But then, you reach your destination.

It's a cross like all others, yet it's not. Because of the name carved into it.

Donald R. Blye

You crouch down next to it, gingerly touching the white marble, as if not wanting to disrupt the peace of the slumbering spirit lying underneath the perfectly mown grass. For long, silent minutes, you just sit there, ignoring the cramp in your calves, thoughts and questions and emotions whirling around.

You once described those thoughts to Nate as having your brain put in a blender and it's quite the same here. Like then, they all have one focus: Kensi.

After a while, you feel stupid, just sitting there. So you do what you always do when you're nervous; you start babbling.

"Eh, Hi, Mr. Blye. I'm Deeks. Marty, Marty Deeks. You may have heard of me, from Kensi, your daughter. Well, of course you know she's your daughter, you're her father. Sorry, I don't make much sense, do I. I never do when I'm nervous or upset. And I am. Because, you see, Kensi's, she's…"

A sob breaks through and you can't be bothered with trying to hide it. It's a cemetery, for Christ' sake. If there ever was a place anyone can cry without looking like a moron, it's here. Of course, Kensi would be the first to point out you're a moron regardless of location, but that's beside the point.

You wouldn't be here if Kensi was here to point that out to you.

So on you babble, vomiting words at warp speed, trying to convey whatever it is you feel to the silent headstone with a beloved last name engraved into it.

"Kensi's…eh…she's on this mission. In Afghanistn. Without me, well, obviously without me, because otherwise I would not be standing here, I would be with her, because that's where I'm supposed to be, but they didn't let me and now she has nobody to watch her back and I have nobody to watch mine. I guess I have Sam and Callen en God knows they try, but they…they're not Kensi. Nobody's like Kensi. Nobody comes close. You created the true Wonder Woman and I…I managed to lose her. I'm such an idiot. I lost her."

With that admission, the floodgates open truly. All the anger, the worry, the all-encompassing fear that you've left it too late, wash over you like a tsunami of pain and you let it. It feels safe to do it here.

It's cathartic, really. As the last sobs dissolve, as the last tears find their way down you cheeks, you feel oddly calm for the first time since Hetty told you your partner was reassigned indefinitely. Whatever Nate has been trying to do to you, regardless of the loyalty of your dog Monty, this visit actually helps.

You idly wonder if Donald Blye would have liked you. If he would have thought you worthy of his wonderful baby girl, despite of your blubbering. Maybe he would have appreciated your honesty, if anything.

After that first visit, it soon becomes a weekly ritual. One you keep to yourself as a precious treasure. There's not much private in your life and this is the one thing that needs to have this label.

Perhaps Nell has some inkling, but she's so used to keeping everybody's secrets, you're certain she won't mention it to anyone.

The initial babbling has subsided by the third time you're there. Now you just tell the headstone all about your day and sometimes about your dreams and how they involve his only child. You never forget to mention how much you love her. It feels good to say the words out loud, just in case you never get to say them out loud to the person who needs to hear them the most.

The holidays creep up on you. You spend Thanksgiving with Callen and Sam's family, more to appease the man than anything else. Only Sam's delightful kids, who genuinely adore you, bring a semblance of a smile on your face. When it's your turn to say what you're grateful for, you gulp down some threatening knots in your throat and mumble something about being with friends during the hard times. Sam's hand on your shoulder tells you he gets it and he quickly redirects the question to his daughter, letting her happy chattering fill the somewhat awkward emptiness your words have left in their wake.

On the day of Christmas Eve, you buy a wreath to put at the grave site, knowing Kensi would have done the same. That night, you find the satellite phone Hetty left you as a Christmas gift and the sound of her voice is almost your undoing. You tell her about the wreath and she thanks you kindly. You don't tell her however, that you're a regular visitor at the gravesite now. Some things you have to keep to yourself. Even when she's the reason you're there in the first place.

Christmas, as always, is spent at the shelter, doling out food and clothes and small gifts to children who have already seen too much. Eleven year old Deeks can relate.

New Years Eve comes and goes. This time, you politely decline Sam's invitation, reluctant to see the couple exchange kisses right after the countdown. Of course you don't begrudge them their happiness (not after the price you paid for it to continue), but since you'll only be reminded that the one you want to kiss on this evening is no longer there, you want to stay clear of anyone who's happy for a while.

You and Monty sit in silence on the beach, with a beer for you and a biscuit for him. You're in bed by twelve-thirty.

Your birthday, a week later, goes by hugely ignored. You find a card with well wishes of the guys and there's a bottle of single malt whisky in your drawer. There's a pre-recorded message from Kensi in your mailbox, cheerfully wishing you a great day.

It's not.

Valentine's Day is spent babysitting for Sam while he takes Michelle out. Again, it's the liveliness of the kids that pulls you through, though you try your hardest not to cry when they're presenting you with a heart shaped gingerbread cookie, the words "Uncle Deeks" written on it with pink icing. So sweet.

It's early March now. There's no sign Kensi will return any time soon. You are ordered to play happy undercover couple with Nell to try and find out if three young Marines renting a house together have any affiliations with a religious cult. You try very hard not to think of Justin and Melissa, of snicker doodles and a kiss meant to distract their neighbors, but did a great job of distracting you too. Nell gets it and after a private conversation with Hetty, the exact contents you'll probably never know of, the story is changed and you're now brother and sister.

Problem solved. Well, one of them at least. You'll take it.

It does mean however, you can't make your trips down to the cemetery for a while, something that bugs you to no end. If it makes you snap at Nell a little too much, she doesn't mention it and you make it up to her by sending her a bunch of flowers after the undercover mission is over; with no results, which bugs all of you.

At the florist, your eye catches a small, unassuming potted plant and when you recognize it for what it is, you quickly put it on the counter. You know just the place for it.

It's been two weeks since you've had time to visit Kensi's father, but as soon as you can, on a cool but sunny Sunday morning, you drive over there. Because it's still so early, there aren't too many people there yet, which is fine by you.

Standing at your usual spot, you tell the silent stone all the usual nonsense, all about how you miss her. Every day a bit more.

"It's so strange," you tell Don Blye, "You should think that as days go by the usual mundane every day life stuff would lull you into some sense of normalcy, but that's a load of crap. All my usual things somehow involve her and so how can anything by even remotely normal when she's not there to experience them with me? Or does she make mundane tasks special just because she's there? Do I even want to know the difference? Do I really need to get used to not having her? How can I do that?"

You don't expect an answer, you have stopped believing in ghosts a long time ago; knowing the real world is hard enough to deal with to negate the need for transparent undead creatures added to the confusion.

Too bad you actually wish for an answer, with all your heart. Because if this is supposed to be your reality now, a life without Kensi in it, you do need help finding a way to live with that knowledge.

Why you have given up hope of ever seeing her again, you don't know. It's just been so long…so long…

Not knowing what to do with yourself, you decide to leave for now, but not before kneeling down and putting the small plant near the base of the cross. You know the caretakers of the cemetery will take it away in a few days, but you hope they might skip this one, at least for a while.

Stretching your back, you feel the sun on your face and exhale. It's perfect surfing weather. Perhaps you can catch a few waves before the afternoon sun brings out too many people for your comfort.

When you leave, you think you feel someone watching you. All spider-senses in place, you let your eyes wander over the few people around you, but don't detect anything out of the ordinary.

Ghosts or no ghosts, you decide you're truly getting paranoid and leave the place with an altogether uneasy feeling.

_Part II_

_Kensi_

Two days. You've been home for two days and with the exception of Hetty and Granger (and director Vance and the SecNav you suppose), nobody knows. For no particular reason, you're not ready to face your friends and coworkers again.

Not even your partner. Especially now him.

Oh you crave for him, long for him, want nothing more than to feel his arms around you, but you feel it's unfair to place your fresh demons on top of his, lest he may crumble underneath the weight.

Besides…is it real?

During your many, lonely, uncomfortable and sometimes downright dangerous weeks you've been away, your mind started playing tricks on you. Mean tricks, undermining your certainty about everything, including him. And your…thing.

The thing that never got a chance to develop. That was never even defined. That was fleeting and uncertain and…nothing.

It was probably nothing anyway. Wishful thinking. Figment of your imagination. Because, let's be honest, why would he want you? You're not dead ugly, but you're not the epitome of femininity either. What man wants to spend forever with a woman capable of strangling him with her bare hands, but who at the same time has more baggage than the storage room of LAX?

The little flame of hope, reignited every time you dare to look at his picture, tries to convince you it is real. Really real. He does want you. Does love you. You will work this thing out now that you are back. He'll be there for you.

But he might not. What if he got a new partner? And what if it's another woman? What if he's fallen in love with her and has forgetten all about you? You don't like to think he's that shallow, but he is Deeks after all and flirting is as natural, as essential to him as breathing is. Just because the flirting was for the most part directed at you doesn't mean it's restricted to you only. It's merely because you're…well…there. Available. And grateful.

Yes, Kensi Blye, you are. You're just about ladylike enough to more than appreciate his compliments. No matter how goofy he tends to make them.

But compliments do not a relationship make.

What does, you have no idea. Your track record (as well as his) doesn't show much promise and with the exception of Sam, neither do those of your coworkers. Callen, Hetty and even Deeks go home alone. Well, maybe Deeks not all the time.

But, says the flame of hope again, he does spend a lot of evenings with you, either at your place or his, sharing take-out and watching movies or some reality show. There aren't many nights left for him to pick up a girl to take home for some more R-rated activities. So why so jealous?

Because it's not real. Not anymore. It's in the past and you have no reason to simply assume he wants to pick up where you've left off. He promised to be patient with you, but that was before you were dragged away from him and stationed halfway around the world on some kind of suicide mission.

What are the odds now that he'll simply want to pick up where you've left things off?

Don't get any smart ideas, Agent Blye, about your partner. It's just a thing. It's nothing real or profound or lasting.

It's nothing. Not even a thing. No thing. Nothing.

And without it, you yourself are nothing. And if you're nothing, than you can't face him. Not yet anyway. Not until you find a way to be someone, something without him. You really don't want to, but you guess you'll have to.

After your debriefing at one of the prettier safe houses, you request some leave of absence, which is immediately granted. Your home is empty and hostile, though it's cleaner than you've ever seen it since you moved in and you just know he's been checking in on your stuff.

It's enough to make you cry, but then again, a sneeze is enough these days.

These past two days have been all about you trying to figure out how to just exist without the constant tension and fear. It's not easy, and last night, you didn't get to sleep longer than two hours before waking up in a sweat, a scream dying on your lips, sweat soaking the ancient, faded LAPD shirt you use as a nightgown.

His shirt.

You might never have your thing with him, but you have his shirt. Not much, but you count your blessings.

The nightmare, from what you can recall, was mostly about Afghanistan, but a part was about him too. About seeing him get shot and bleed to death before you can reach him. About standing at his grave and murmuring sweet words you've never had the guts to say out loud. About confronting him with your 'thing' but never getting an answer.

The not knowing starts to hurt more than the nothing it is now.

You know you're running out of time. You need to know and soon.

If only you knew how to go about it. You're an agent, you're supposed to be used to winging it, to barging headfirst into the most unfamiliar and potentially (mostly) dangerous situations without raising an eyebrow. But that's merely possible because your partner is there and he always, always has your back.

So why is this so hard now?

There's only one place, other than Deeks's apartment, where you think you might find some piece of mind and even, if you listen hard enough, some answers.

So you man up, get up and get showered and dressed. After a quick breakfast of coffee and donut, you take your car keys (a rental car; taking your car could alarm someone, that someone obviously being him) and drive over to the Los Angeles National Cemetery.

Making your way over to your father's grave, you spot someone standing there. Whoever it is, he has blonde hair. His walk too is familiar. The height is right too.

But then you dismiss the thought. It has to be someone else. You just miss him so much, you see him in every man. The man walks away and you let him go.

Then you find yourself in front of his grave.

Like all military cemeteries, it's well kept, the lawns pristine. Your hand trails the name on the cross and your mouth whispers a soft 'daddy'. You never talk while you're here, you know that, wherever he is, he knows you well enough not to need words. Your mere presence is enough, as it always was.

It takes you quite a moment to notice something off with his grave site. In the corner, tucked in the shadow of the marble cross, stands a potted plant. How weird. As far as you know, you're the only one who still visits Donald Blye. Or perhaps one of his company's men was here recently. It has to be recent, the plant looks fresh to you (not that you would know).

Or…no, don't go there again, Agent Blye.

But what…you kneel down to see if there's a card attached, but there is none. It's quite the anonymous plant. Since it seems to be harmless, you put it down, taking a picture with your cell phone. Maybe Nell can figure something out.

When you check the picture for clarity, you suddenly notice the label on the pot itself. Again, you pick it up.

Athyrium. And underneath the normal name.

Fern.

Oh my god.

Tears spring into your eyes as realization sets in.

It was him.

It truly really was him.

Marty Deeks was visiting her father.

If anyone else would have invaded your privacy like this, you would castrate them with your trusted knife and have their nuts dangling from your rearview mirror as a warning to all others who dared to try.

But of course your knife (not just a knife) is in his possession now anyway.

There's no time to lose. He should be halfway across the cemetery by now, on his way to the exit. With a hurried excuse to your father and knowing he would have understood perfectly, you turn on your heal and run.

Thank God, you can still sprint like the best of them and soon enough, your partner comes back into view. As soon as he's within earshot, you call out to him with panting voice.

"Marty!"

Weird. You've never called him by his given name before, but it hasn't even occurred to you to use his last name, like you always do. Maybe because you know, on a very basic level, that this situation is not like any others and that after today, your definition of what's normal between you and the man you love should be adapted too.

Because that's what this thing is. It's not nothing. It's a great thing. It's everything.

It's a love story, just like he said he was and just like you finally come to understand and recognize for the truth it holds.

He stops dead in his tracks at the sound of his own name. Turns, slowly. Looks at you for one moment, as if assessing his own eyesight. He blinks, blinks again and then…

A smile so beautiful, so radiant it should be made illegal, spreads across his full, generous mouth. His sky blue eyes light up. His arms open wide.

It takes another sprint for you to close the gap, but then, finally, finally, you're in his arms, hugging him closer, closer still, like you want your bodies to totally absorb each other until you can't figure out whose limbs belong to whom.

More tears run freely along your cheeks, but you think you feel him shake too, or maybe that's just your own trembling. After a while you let go just about enough to be able to look up and in his eyes.

The thing, the everything, is right there. All you have to do is take it. Grab a hold of it and never let it go.

There are, of course, still many questions to be asked and answered, decisions to be made, skeletons to be pulled out of the closets, but the everything you feel makes you believe it's possible. So instead of asking him what he's doing here (you know that much), you lift your hand, brush his cheek and pull his head down.

The kiss is, again, everything. It's an affirmation, it's a promise, it's a vow. It's enough to make your knees buckle, but that's okay, because he's holding you up. He's got your back, as always.

Panting more heavily than five minutes before when you ran into his arms, you look at him, totally smitten and totally okay with it.

"Welcome home, Fern," he whispers.

"Don't call me Fern," you retort.

"I love you Fern," he teases, but his words are meant for you. For Fern, Kensalina, Melissa, Princess and Sugar Bear…but mostly for you.

"I love you, Marty Deeks."

You don't need the nicknames. Marty Deeks is fine (real fine) by you.

"Let's go home, Fern."

"Stop calling me Fern!"

His laughter follows you out of the cemetery. Though it might seem inappropriate to laugh at a place like this, the moment is too perfect for you to say or do anything about it.

It's everything.

THE END

_Any thoughts? Let me know and thanks for doing that!_


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